The Otter and the Hedgehog
by Trinity Fire
Summary: Just when John and Sherlock think they have time to rest after a case, they get an unexpected surprise... Unexpected, yes, and fluffy! Warning: M/M slash, Rated T, though-Johnlock and a little Mystrade on the side. Otter!Sherlock/Hedgehog!John Be gentle with me, first fic n all...!
1. Chapter 1: Otter And Hedgehog

Author's Note: Greetings, all! This is my first fic uploaded... Kind of ever, and my first time doing anything relatively Johnlocky of any kind.

This fic was inspired by the multitude of Benedict/Sherlock being compared to otters, and likewise with Martin/John and Hedgehogs. ;3 If you haven't seen it already, go google it, they're perfect. X3 Apologies for any OOC-ness, and Enjoi!

* * *

John woke up early-the clinic was waiting for him, it'd be a long day- blinking the bleary drowsiness from his eyes. The case Sherlock had solved only the day before had worn him out, especially with the late night concertos and his rumbling musings with the skull. He'd finally ceased his sound-making near 3 in the morning, where it had suddenly fallen eerily quiet. John had gratefully lapsed into sleep at once, and had awoken to the remaining absolute silence. Absolute silence in 221B? Just before John left for work? Just a Bit not good.

How odd, he thought, sitting up; he felt strange. His vision quality was noticeably lower-maybe I did something yesterday? He thought, unsettled.  
He couldn't hear a violin screeching downstairs, and decided that Sherlock had once again left him for the day, probably for a case, he reasoned.  
With a shrug, he attempted to crawl out of bed, but still, something felt very wrong- and he couldn't find the edge of it. Now John was very nervous, and glanced around himself.  
The room was still blurry, but still vaguely familiar- and larger?!  
"Now what is going on?" He whimpered, slowly glancing down at his hands.  
They weren't hands now-paws were a more accurate description.  
He froze, unsure of the proper reaction to this new problem, but promptly decided an outlet was preferable, and abruptly screamed as loud as he could manage, but the sound that escaped his mouth was very much non-human, and more like a long, drawn out squeak than anything.  
This I must see... He thought frantically. How is this even possible?  
Trembling, he crawled to the side of the bed until he tumbled off it, landing on his back and squirming to get back on his feet furiously.  
Good lord, what a challenge it was! He mentally screamed, finally stilling his struggling movements.  
His eyes smarted with frustration till he laid there, panting for a long, delirious moment before controllably rolling back onto his four paws with a squirming kick. Afterwards, the scrabbling, scratching sounds his movements made were relatively loud, and he attempted to instinctively silence them, walking more slowly and carefully, as much as his panic-induced state would really allow, anyway.  
After some trekking and digging, he'd finally gotten somewhat luckier and discovered his phone in yesterday's jean pockets, rather than his bedside table, for which he was grateful, and gazed upon his reflection. Once he had, however, he froze for what seemed like years. Blonde in every sense of the word, and covered head-to-toe in pointy spines on his back, black beady eyes and a small, pointed nose...  
His assumptions had been correct-he wasn't human anymore, and he found that this was considerably much worse than he'd originally thought.  
"I'm..." He choked on the word, and locked his jaw, unable to think the word aloud. He took a few deep breaths, and tried again.  
"I'm a hedgehog!" He finally managed with a quiet wail, tearing his eyes away from his reflection. Determined not to give in to the panic settling in his stomach, he unlocked the phone, doing his best to a avoid looking at himself, and called Sherlock's number, whether to demand if this was an experiment gone wrong or maybe demand answers, he wasn't quite sure. However, he felt it'd be a mixture of both, and to extents.  
A thrill of ice filled his body when he heard the shrill sounds of a phone ringing downstairs-Sherlock was still here. He wasn't ready to face the threat of the stairs, however, and hoped that the detective would, just this once, answer his godforsaken phone.  
The velvet bass tone of Sherlock's voicemail greeted him, and John hit the end call button with a bit more vigor than really necessary. He never forgot his phone, never left without it-the thought of him having done so frightened John, enticing thoughts of possible kidnappings and making his new tiny heart race anxiously. The fear overwhelmed his quivering body, daunted him.  
I need to make sure he's ok-what a bloody great time for this to happen! He thought furiously, frustrated with his newly limited mobility. His mind was in uproar as he finally made a decision: he'd have to go find him himself, even in this form, even if he was in considerably more danger than he would have been earlier, because Sherlock might have needed him.  
He abandoned his mobile and rushed towards his door, willing to risk the challenge of the stairs. "Sherlock?!" He cried out as he worked his way down the first two steps. At least his leg and shoulder didn't bother him as badly, he thought gratefully, barely avoiding tumbling down the rest of the steps. A sharp cry escaped him as he landed on his back, loudly and painfully when he registered the slight and dull pains in his shoulder again.  
"John?!" Another voice from downstairs called-Sherlock, he realized gratefully, almost collapsing with relief. It lasted only a moment, though, as the deep voice echoed with an almost uncertain quality. Still, it was better to hear him and know he was alive and confused rather than be missing and sure.  
"H-here, Sherlock," he replied, trying to catch his breath once more, leaning back against the steps. At least Sherlock is okay, John thought, hoping the consulting detective would help him down the rest of the way, and perhaps offer him some forms of explanation.  
The thought comforted him until he looked up and found a pair of beady, dark eyes boring into his. He scrambled to get away from the larger brown animal, who continued to stare at him in an unnervingly focused manner, wearing a dark blue scarf in an almost humorous-wait, blue scarf? John blinked, ceasing his panicked movements for a moment to finally examine what was really standing before him. The creature's fur was relatively curly, thick and wild, which was unusual given the animal's species, and on his belly was a lighter, creamier color than the almost-black shade of fur. The animal's paws were clawed, webbed and held upright awkwardly, as though the owner had no idea as to where they should be placed.  
"Oh my god," John croaked.  
Sherlock was an otter.

The duo stared at each other for a long, silent moment, in which the otter squirmed restlessly, fixing the oversized scarf nervously, eyes cast down, and calling John's name quietly in Sherlock's voice.  
The hedgehog finally came back to himself in a trembling sort of way, still silent, and with a sigh, Sherlock carefully scooped up his much-smaller friend, mindful of the sharp spines, tucking him into the many folds of his now too-large scarf, and hopping down the rest of the steps with much more ease than John had had.  
They retreated to the couch, where, amusingly, Sherlock hopped up and laid on his back in a very otter-like fashion, removing John from the folds of fabric and resting him on his belly, wedged between his large, webbed paws. It was very unnerving, very unbecoming for John when he realized that his companion was ready to patiently wait until he was ready to speak, very unlike Sherlock. At last, he remembered how to work his mouth again and spoke.  
"Lestrade?" He asked uncertainly. Otter-Sherlock raised a brow, testily playing with the spines on John's back and the fur at his sides as his tail gave a twitch.  
"Hm? Oh. Yes, I called him thirty minutes ago-four point two-five minutes before you woke up. He'll be here soon-I had hoped you'd have been unaffected, but as we can both see that is not the case, without completely stating the obvious. No, I had no experiments that would have adjusted our species completely, or of any major effect of that kind, John, I know that's been on your mind since you awoke this morning."  
"Why didn't you try coming for me when I screamed? Or when your phone rang? You must've heard me then," John pondered, eyes narrowed at the consulting otter. His friend shrugged. "I was preoccupied-trying to reach my stash of cigarettes reserved for an occasion like this, get my things down from the coat rack. I wanted to be somewhat identifiable, nobody knew what animal you would've been-it would really have been unfortunate if I'd gotten hurt like this. I knew you weren't in any immediate danger, my otter senses wouldn't have allowed for that." He explained.  
John huffed, irritated, and curled up slightly.  
This occasion?! Ugh, I'm not going to ask... John thought, irked, before he decided on asking another pressing question.  
"Otter senses?" He mumbled uncertainly, feeling his friend sigh heavily under him as he shifted to better hold John closely without being jabbed by pointy spines, much to his confusion.  
Sherlock saw this, and jabbed a lively paw towards his laptop, which, as far as John could see, had a brown otter-shaped blob on the monitor.  
"Yes yes, I did my research-otters are social, lively, friendly and intelligent creatures. They like their mates, friends and family. Which, the only one that can fit into any of those categories is you," Sherlock recited with a slight waving of his paw, almost evasively, and lowered it again.  
Before John could decide whether to ask which category he'd been referred to or not, there was the heavy sound of footsteps in the hall, causing John to quake involuntarily as Lestrade appeared in the doorway, and Sherlock to sit up in a more alert manner.  
"What in blazes is the matter, Sherlo-Oh my god," he stuttered, finally spotting a very aggravated-looking curly-haired otter, cuddling (for lack of a better word) with a blond hedgehog that _seemed_ very frightened.  
"Sherlock?" He asked uncertainly. The otter sighed, and tucked John into his scarf once more, protectively, as he rose onto his feet and clumsily padded over the furniture to greet Lestrade, careful of his now-webbed toes.  
"Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently.  
"You're an otter," the Detective Inspector spluttered. Otter-Sherlock made a face of disgust. "Yes, yes, the sky is blue, there is earth beneath your feet, and John's a hedgehog; now stop stating the obvious. Somehow we've been transformed into animals and it wasn't any of our doings so- we're looking for some form of contaminant, check the air vents or the kitchen supplies, it could be anything, even Mrs. Hudson's flat downstairs could be-"  
There was a shriek, and Sherlock's brow furrowed at the interruption. "Scratch that, Mrs. Hudson's been changed as well; probably a tortoise." Now concerned, his long tail brushed nervously at the floor, and he glanced over to glare at it, agitated.  
"Fine, fine-do you need help at all? I mean, you're animals now; no thumbs." Lestrade explained, caught somewhere between a hysteric laugh, giggle, and the need to be concerned.  
John, finally calmed, peered out from Sherlock's huge scarf.  
"We'll manage, Greg-sorry about the mess." He explained, unhappily squirming in the large folds of his friend's soft, comfortable scarf.  
The Inspector paused for a long moment, staring at the duo. Finally Sherlock spoke up with a hiss.  
"Lestrade, if you pull out your camera phone as you intended then so help me-"  
"Bye!" He barked once, interrupting Sherlock's threat and hurrying out the door, mobile in hand.  
"God-" Sherlock made a quick and sudden movement, throwing his paws up in the air in frustration, throwing John off with a loud and surprised squeak.  
He landed on the floor, on his back again, and groaned in pain.  
"John?!" Sherlock leapt after him worriedly, reaching out for his friend and carefully, gently, rolling him onto his feet again.  
"I'm fine...! Right, well," John grunted. Worried Sherlock was definitely one to be looked after-something was wrong with him.  
He shuddered, remembering the last time Sherlock was sick and had to be taken care of; he'd been impossible, sending John out for things and then berating him for having left him for so long (he'd only been gone for fifteen minutes, tops), asking for specific foods or drinks and then denying them after being put in front of him-all of this lasted for three days straight.  
This seemed different, however-John could still feel Sherlock worrying over him, picking dirt and dust and things out of the spines on his back.  
"I'm going to go see if I can get my paws on a cuppa," John muttered decisively, determined to have at least some form of normality.  
The otter watched as the hedgehog began his relatively longer trek across the flat, somewhat grateful that it wasn't so large as some.  
With a whimper unfitting for the Consulting Detective, he began closely following his friend, making sure to stay at the same pace John set.  
Within a few feet, John paused tiredly, far from adjusted, resting his new form of walking before begrudgingly moving forward.  
It was a long process, but he finally managed to arrive at the kitchen without having Sherlock helped him once.  
Climbing onto the chairs and having Sherlock push him around was another story-Sherlock's compliant nature was strange, but John felt grateful for it in those moments, however long it lasted as he carefully set a large bowl of water over the stove.  
After having decided it was warm enough, he was cautious in moving it to the side-just for today, he and Sherlock would have to share the same tea, but neither minded so much-their taste buds didn't vary so much that they'd be averse to sharing just once.  
After it'd been prepared, Sherlock soon creatively lowered the tea bowl down to the floor with some lever-like contraption, where they eagerly dove in.  
"It's not too bad, is it?" John muttered obligingly. "I mean, we could've been turned into snakes or spiders or something much more useless-"  
"That's it, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, nearly upturning the bowl. "A spider-Moriarty had something to do with this!"  
Bewildered, the hedgehog blinked sluggishly, then went back to lapping at the tea.  
"Why not kill us then? Seems like a stupid idea, and a waste of opportunities...!"  
At this, Sherlock nodded agreeably. "Yes, but if he gets bored, what else is there to do besides commit crimes and design murders?"  
He squirmed excitedly, tea all but forgotten as he scrambled away, towards his laptop.  
John grumbled quietly and continued downing his tea, thoughtfully.  
Sherlock, meanwhile, was tapping out a message of sorts on his blog, an entry that he'd keep in mind to watch over the next few days.

**Otter and hedgehog tests begin-experiment No. 1: Domestication Attempt. So far successful with minor drawbacks. Tea and biscuits are fine. Will continue to monitor for other results.**

**Experiment No. 2: Compatibility**  
**Species are relatively co-habitable; may soon need to reorganize sleeping schedules and living arrangements. Both subjects are sociable. Dietary issues have not surfaced. Will continue to monitor as well.**

He finalized the entry and submitted it, turning to face John, who had puttered away from the now-empty tea bowl to curl up on the fallen Union Jack cushion. The sudden realization hit him hard-no cases for a while, and he'd have to eat foods he didn't like to supply his new body, not to mention look after John and stop being lazy. His number of daily life problems and difficulties had suddenly been increased tenfold, because he still needed to catch Moriarty, and find out what had been done to him and his friend.  
Watching John rest, though, softened him just enough to accept it a little easier, and he trotted over to his sleeping friend to examine him a bit further.  
European Hedgehog, common in the United Kingdom, and definitely far from extinct-he'd have to keep him away from passersby, since they wouldn't care too particularly if they'd accidentally squished a hedgehog underfoot.

He would be a little harder to miss-Sherlock was bigger, taller, stronger. And to top it all off, he could swim, float and had sharper senses and teeth. It couldn't be too bad, being an otter for as long as he needed to. He could easily protect John, just stuff him in his scarf as he puttered about, and be careful with the spines on the hedgehog's back. He'd have to retrieve and look after Mrs. Hudson eventually, but she never left anyways. And John wouldn't be able to leave without _him_.

With that pleasant thought in mind, Sherlock turned tail-quite literally, unfortunately-and flopped onto his back on the sofa, squirming to acclimate himself to the apparent change in depth and size of it, lapsing into the thoughtful, meditative state of mind that he often did when waiting patiently in lieu of response during a case.

* * *

So! Let me know what you think! And yes, John is a blonde European Hedgehog, while Sherlock is a European River Otter, both not too uncommon out in the UK according to Wiki. ;3c


	2. Chapter 2: A Fish Is Miracles

***EDIT: **8o8 I was only gone for a few hours... And then I saw lovely reviews and favorites and things before I came back to fix up some mistakes and things...! I love you guys...!  
PS: Idek how England works, so pardon moi if I don't know how many of what species is where. I'm just going by whatever inaccurate info I come by. I think otters and hedgehogs are still more common to see out there than they are over here~! (For me, AKA Never. 8n8)

* * *

**Chapter 2: A Fish Is Miracles**

The first few days were hell on earth.

Well, that was actually just exaggerating a bit. It was mildly tiresome for both flat mates, true, but for John especially. He often got tired puttering about the flat, and quickly, to the point where he had quite literally fallen asleep wherever he was, collapsing, exhausted. It was enough to have Sherlock worried-although these days, it wasn't as difficult to do as it had once been. That was another thing-wherever John paused and fell asleep, he always found himself back on the Union Jack cushion, as if it'd been carried over to him-or, in this case, dragged over. It was an endearing thought, Sherlock fussing over him for once instead of it being the other way round, but he didn't have any particularly high hopes as to what it could mean. Sherlock was merely just a bundle of whims that could be kind and mindful one moment, then frigid and distant in the next. It was unpredictable, and frustrating to try and understand, let alone study-John had simply learned to let it go on it's wild paths and stay out of its way when he could.

Things were shockingly domestic, though-Sherlock had grumbled about some experiments he couldn't access and observe in the refrigerator (hopefully not those toes and bacteria samples again-John had gotten enough of finding them in strange places for toes-like the stew pot) but hadn't gone into a frenzy of any kind for drugs or cases or any of the norm that would have had John wrestling his own fists safely away from Sherlock's sharply prominent cheekbones, and amazingly versatile eyes within a few days.

These features he missed especially, although he'd never say it, and if Sherlock knew, he didn't make any comment on it, so they let it be.

The duo had settled on Tea and Biscuits in the "proper English way" for the past few days, which had served them well thus far, as Sherlock didn't eat much and John found that he was nocturnal, making good for the times that he fell asleep on his own, as Sherlock wasn't a creature of the night like he'd been intended to be. He'd found ways to amuse himself, playing with Sherlock's new antics-he was more energetic, and friendlier, but also more active, too, and that made for a constantly tired John when he tried to keep up with his larger friend as he trod up and about the flat busily. As a result, Sherlock would place John in the folds of his scarf again, as he'd done the first day, and continue about the flat without a pause. Animal urges called for, of course, animalistic reaction-if Sherlock felt the urgent need to swim, he and John would struggle to twist the bathtub knobs to get him water (No thumbs and all, they remembered wryly). If John felt uncomfortable and the need to burrow, he and Sherlock did their best to drag down sheets and blankets, placing his larger head under the sheet to watch as John scurried about here and there to happily fix up a complex series of tunnels he'd surely have gotten lost in had his friend been elsewhere.

Sherlock's anxiety of John being crushed by passersby when they were out turned out to be in vain, solved easily by none other than Greg Lestrade. They'd been quarantined tightly to just the flat by Lestrade, who had finally put to good use the blackmail he'd organized, and checked on the duo often. While it begrudged the couple of animals-gone-wrong, they were somewhat relieved about the thought of not facing exposure immediately, if at all. It was. really only a matter of time before others started to get suspicious, unfortunately, what with the rumor mills at both the clinic and Scotland Yard being contented and well-fed with John and Sherlock's regard to one another in their presences. Frankly, John wasn't so sure he'd be able to deal with any more "knowing looks" he'd receive while tending to his shifts at the clinic after he'd hung up the phone with them, explaining that he'd have to attend to his flatmate unexpectedly.

"It's an emergency," he'd explained through the line cryptically. Sherlock had stood behind him at a careful distance the whole time, saying nothing, simply listening. After he'd ended his call, the otter had trotted away, back to the sofa, where he flopped for at least the fiftieth time that afternoon.

Every time he did that, John had to smother a laugh; he'd never noticed how otter-like Sherlock really was until after this whole frenzy, and if he had to be honest with himself, it wasn't half bad, this life as animals. He hadn't forsaken the idea of turning back into a human, though, of course not-but they were really never bored. Sherlock's antics had gotten to be cuter when performed by an animal (even if the detective was still himself in character), and his attitude had become mellower, not to mention much less abrasive with John. If that wasn't a nice break, he didn't know what would be. But that's just what this had to be-a break. He found himself not particularly anxious to return to his original form, if it meant he could have this peace for just a bit longer. Had he spoken aloud to Sherlock about the peace, his friend would have laughed at him. Of course it won't last-you forget the Universal Theory of Chaos, John. Idiot. Think a little, why don't you? He would have said.

The next day, Day 3 of this experience that hadn't seemed too bad so far, was going to be known as The Day John Almost Became Food. And food for, of all people, one Mister Sherlock Holmes.

It'd been quick-John had tittered his little way into the lower cabinet to investigate any hope for food, knowing there was none, and backed out hastily the moment he caught sight of pale, chalky white bones.

"SHERLOCK!" He yelled, shocked, and tumbled onto his back, breath coming quickly in relieved gasps. His flatmate trotted over curiously, but his eyes were oddly unmoved.

"I see you found them. Finally." The otter remarked, surprisingly complacent, seating his long body before him. John narrowed his eyes, and stopped trying to roll over for just a moment, scrutinizing his partner in crime. "Social experiment," the detective explained tightly, saying nothing afterwards.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" The otter didn't respond, merely humming his weak reassurance as he .

_What would Sherlock do to figure this one out…?_ John paused in thought as he very carefully rolled back onto his feet, having gotten his fair share of practice attempting to deal with stairs just the day before. _Right-solve the case, figure it out._

Sherlock's eyes followed him closely, too closely to just be concerned. His body shifted slightly, lightly lashing his tail, as John oriented his own torso, watching him now.

"Sherlock?" The beady black eyes were far from Sherlock's original, piercing eyes, seeming only to keep a keen eye on him for that sole purpose of just watching.

_Uh oh_. John swallowed, and yawned, eyes still open slightly through this facade.

"Right, well. If you're not going to answer me, then I'm just going to go to sleep. Where's that cushion that I was using earlier?" He asked, pretending to be nonchalant about the strange behaviour, plodding off and away from the death trap of a kitchen.

Sherlock began to quiver as he edged after John unsteadily, taking stuttering, small steps after his smaller friend. A little growl became more apparent as John quickly led the otter out of the kitchen and into the sitting area, making way steadily for the cushion-which, conveniently for him, had been placed by John's chair, the gap under which was far too small for an otter to get under-but certainly not for a hedgehog, he mused smugly.

A snarl behind him suggested it was time to run, and now, so John did-he quickly swerved out of the way of a webbed, clawed paw slamming down near where he'd stood only moments before, hearing the feverish growls of Sherlock's bass voice and witnessing the little convulsions of his hungry stomach. John felt sudden sympathy for his friend, but quickly dove down under the chair, heart pounding and his senses blown into hyperactivity as the loud snapping of sharp teeth locking shut empty barely missed him.

Sherlock's snarling and growling as he pawed after the hedgehog made him shiver, and he squeaked once in panic when his other paw made contact with him, grabbing him firmly. He followed his instinct at once-he bit his companion's paw-in the webbing-and curled into a protective, spiny ball seconds after he was released. When the paw returned for him, it was met with searing, stabbing, awakening pain, having been too quickly introduced with the sharpness that came with John's spines. Sherlock's cry was far from human, although his human voice returned in full force, snarling curses that John would've been shocked to hear from his friend had they been under different circumstances.

"Are you back with me, Sherlock?" John demanded, hoarsely, quaking in apprehension. He hadn't uncurled his body, far too tense still to do so now. There was a long pause, during which no one spoke or even dared breathe.

Then, slowly, John saw the shuffling feet that now belonged to his friend as he lowered his head to the ground, brown eyes apologetic as Sherlock stared into John's.

"John," he croaked, miserably. "I think my body needs sustenance-the otter kind."

A startled laugh tumbled from John's throat as he limply unrolled, and lay still, trying to free himself of the effects of the adrenaline rush. "He thinks so," he muttered, and laughed humorlessly. "He _THINKS SO_."

There was a long, injured silence-the whimper of the otter brought John back to earth, and he swung back onto his paws, warily making his way towards his friend who watched the slow procession with his newly obtained unusual patience. When he'd made it back within arm's reach, Sherlock very carefully, very slowly, reached under the chair, and pulled his friend out from under the seat. Tucking his quivering companion into his scarf, the detective made his way to the kitchen.

"You know-you know where everything is," he tentatively explained to his silent friend. His deep cocoa fur speckled with a spot of John's lighter gold color reflected back at him as he peered into the chrome of the refrigerator, grimacing slightly at himself as he climbed up and into the freezer that he pried open. "John."

"Hm? Oh, right, yes, right." The hedgehog broke out of his reverie, and shuffled free of Sherlock's scarf, onto the upper shelves his friend could not access. "Yes, there's fish here… Otters eat fish, right? Yeah…" He muttered as he made his way towards the four large fish he'd been saving for an occasion-one that was clearly not going to happen anytime soon.

"Sherlock! God forbid! _Why are there toes IN THE FREEZER_?" He swore as he shoved the plastic bag containing the offending digits aside, and shoved out one of the fish. Sherlock had the decency, for once, to look relatively ashamed, although it may have been from the earlier… event. However, John still couldn't tell.

He paused, paling at the thought of how exactly he was going to get this huge thing of meat to his flatmate waiting down below, and decided on a course of action quickly. He began to shiver slightly, the cold finally seeping into his fur.

"Okay, Sherlock-get ready to catch this; I'm going to drop it, and you'd best grab on with your teeth!" John warned. His friend grumbled something unintelligible, which he took to be an affirmative, and began nudging the thing over the edge of the shelf. With a slick sound, if slipped from the ledge of the shelf and down to his waiting friend.

There was a yelp and an "ouch!" followed distinctly by a hiss, and when John looked down at his friend again he found Sherlock on his back, fish lying across his face, and very much not in his mouth. The doctor resisted the urge to break down and laugh at the ridiculous sight, instead shimmying down the shelf onto a lower level.

"You're fine-get up, you git, and eat!" He called down, inching his way slowly back to the ground.

Sherlock grumbled quietly, but murmured an almost shy "thank you" before actually attempting to eat the thing. It didn't go well-if it wasn't fried, it seemed, Sherlock didn't know how to eat fish properly. He struggled with the tail end first, then attempted to pry the fish open that way. When that failed, he tried again with the head, whining impatiently as it bore no fruit.

The army doctor watched his pitiful attempts at picking apart the whole filet in silence as he finally returned to the ground, disbelief coloring his tiny hedgehog face. "Okay, okay, move over, apparently you need to see how it's done." The thing was surrendered to him in silence, and the hedgehog got to work with an almost surgical precision.

John took great care to saw apart the fish with his teeth and remove the spine and any extra bones, trying to make things easier on his starved flatmate. Even after he'd given him the now-trimmed piece of pure meat, it seemed the detective was still having issues eating, and was growing increasingly frustrated with it. They were both puzzled, until Sherlock had a sudden realization, his wide eyes catching John's, before quickly gathering the fish pieces and the soldier up with him, making way towards the sofa.

He flopped onto his back, and John almost flew into hysterics when Sherlock began eating again-this time with the ease an otter had in the water. It was only when the detective flinched continuously that John realized the sharp spines on his back had actually made Sherlock's paw bleed a little, and that the sting of the salty fish would not be a great remedy for that at all. Sheepishly, he crawled onto and curled up on his friend's belly apologetically-why Sherlock enjoyed his presence there, he'd never completely understand-but the detective waved his other paw in a vague gesture. "You did what you had to do," he reasoned, and that was that.

Shortly after collaboratively eating a pound and a half of fish, John having helped with a minimal portion of that weight, the two collapsed into silence, John's meditative, and Sherlock's almost… sluggish. When the doctor turned to examine his friend, he found paws enclosing over him, and barely resisted flinching as they descended gently around him. Upon scrutiny, he found a pleasant surprise-Sherlock was asleep. He was cuddling a hedgehog of all things, in his sleep.

_I shouldn't have expected anything more_, John mused wearily. _He did talk to a skull more often than real people before I came around..._

Deciding to let his friend sleep while he cleared the mess in the kitchen, John squirmed free of Sherlock's grip-or, more accurately, tried to, and failed. The paws were gentle, but tenacious, and held on raptly, as if life depended on it.

Resigned, the nocturnal creature allowed the breaths and slow rumbling sound of his friend's sleep to lull him into dozing off, and settled in for the afternoon, tucking his friend's injured paw away from his spines carefully.


	3. Chapter 3: Beware of the Moon

A/N: I've updated this story twice today~! Hopefully you feel spoiled or at least somewhat content with what's come of this so far...! I know I'm happy this is finally getting off the doc, it was taking up quite a bit of room. (Losing your internet for a week does that. =w=')  
Anyways, enjoy, and I'll try to have this updated (by chapter) no later than every weekend. Shouldn't be more than 1 or 2 now...!

* * *

**Chapter 3: Beware of the Moon**

The next day was filled with a relatively sleepy, sluggish Sherlock, who refused to move too far away from the sitting area, but also from John, and made him apprehensive. He had no idea why his younger friend was so anxious, only that Lestrade was coming by the flat soon, with more fish in hand by request through phone. He only grew more suspicious when, after so many hours of constant shadowing and little remarks here and there, Sherlock disappeared. Now John was uneasy, but he took no action to remedy it other than to drink from the tea bowl and brood.

Around four in the afternoon, one hour till the detective inspector had scheduled to arrive after work, the door to the flat swung open, and John, having been on the Union Jack cushion behind his chair, peered around it and suddenly realized the reason as to why Sherlock had hidden, and cursed his luck that he hadn't seen it coming sooner.

That reason's name was Mycroft Holmes-

Mycroft Holmes who was waltzing into the flat, uninvited as usual, umbrella swinging in hand. Sherlock had obviously seen it coming, and had fled into John's room-_Of ALL places_, the owner cursed-where his brother would not just go poking around until he was sure that Sherlock and John would not mind or wouldn't notice his presence.

He moved to take a seat in John's chair-of course he would-and John found himself trying to scramble away from the foot of the chair at once. The sharp sound of his shoes made immaculate clicks on the ground, evidently meant to impress and intimidate those he worked with in the office, but John winced at the weight and sound they seemed to carry, trying to move a little faster. Naturally, with his luck and new-found lack of agility, he ended up exactly where he hadn't wanted to be, right under Mycroft's foot, spines up against the flat of his shoe. He let out a loud screech, more like a painfully high-pitched squeak that resounded through the whole of the flat.

"Oh goodness, what just-!" Had John been in any other place in this situation, he would have laughed at Mycroft's expression of sheer surprise; it was nearly impossible to catch a Holmes brother off guard, but apparently becoming a hedgehog had made him invisible to those ever-scrutinizing eyes. The weight began to relieve itself, just a little, but never fast enough for John, air crushed from his lungs.

There was a sharp whistle of wind, the pounding of paws and clattering of claws on the floor, followed by the growls of an angry otter charging and tackling his brother.

With a sharp yelp, Mycroft was thrown to the floor and John was left panting in a panic; Sherlock had seated himself on his brother's chest, who stared miraculously at the otter wearing a deep blue scarf, and he turned to peer at his companion.

"John, are you all right?" He called, glaring at his elder brother once before scrambling off of him and prancing over to his friend in concern.

"Fine, fine, y-yeah, fine." John shook himself off, and turned to grimace at Mycroft, approaching slowly as if not to startle him.

_Well. It definitely wasn't Mycroft, and most likely not Moriarty, then-Mycroft would've noticed if he'd dared to show his face in London,_ Sherlock finally agreed with himself, distastefully glancing at his brother.

"You've bitten me, Sherlock," his brother noted dumbly, still shocked.

"Yes, well-that's what we do, otters." _We, not they,_ John realized, a little horrified. _Did that mean they were to remain animals forever? Surely not...! Sherlock wouldn't let that happen; animals aren't nearly as clever as humans, he'd never stand it! No. No, we'll be fine..._

"At least you are aware of it. Who did this to you, then, have you any thoughts?" Mycroft remarked, interrupting John's thoughts, rising up from the ground carefully, and onto the chair, if a bit shakily.

"I have none," Sherlock admitted sheepishly, frowning as he, once again, tucked John into his scarf and leapt onto his chair for them both to be "seated". John was beginning to think that tucking him into his scarf was starting to become a nervous habit, but didn't mind so much now. The hedgehog sprawled out, close to Sherlock's belly, and the duo turned to face the younger's elder brother once comfortable.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, still attentively watching them as he observed the slightly-bleeding bite on his left wrist. "Charming, little brother," he commented, then continued. "I'd noticed your lack of parading about the streets, and decided to investigate myself-and yet here you are, alive and well... Well, as far as health seems to allow," he said pointedly eyeing the pair.

"Are you sure that's the only reason?" Replied his brother, crossing his webbed fore paws in amusement. Curiously, John glanced between them, but made no move to delve any further into it. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, but Sherlock interrupted.

"At any rate, now that you're here-have none of your 'top secret' military labs or bases come up with such a serum? Any hint of something of the like?" He demanded.

Mycroft paused thoughtfully, removing his coat to better examine his wrist, which had now bled a bit and was slowing the thin trickle running down his arm.

"Oh for heavens sake, Sherlock, this was hand-tailored!" He hissed, wrinkling his face in distaste. The otter snuffled what sounded like a snort and settled in further, more comfortably.

"Then don't go around stepping on my-on John. Learn your lesson here, Mycroft." He snapped.

They glared each other down until John pointedly cleared his throat.

"Mycroft," John addressed the British-government-personified. "That hand needs to be tended to-we have first aid in the bathroom." Mycroft took the hint and ousted himself from the scruple before it could escalate any further, rising carefully and making a show of his cautious footwork, undoubtedly a sign of apology to John.

"Sherlock, it'd be grand if you didn't argue with your brother who could possibly be one of the greatest assets to getting our problem fixed." John hissed as soon as Mycroft was out of range. Sherlock rolled his eyes, grumbling disagreeably under his breath. However, he made no argument otherwise and John grudgingly accepted that as confirmation. _I will really miss this part of Sherlock, though, when we do return to normal,_ John pondered, drooping a little sadly.

"John."

"Hm?"

"I apologize."

"Oh? What for?" John was bewildered, much to Sherlock's amusement.

"You cared, John Watson, when the beast attempted to eat you yesterday—you apologized for the pricks left in the paw of your predator. You fed said predator after the assault, even allowed some normalcy back into your relationship with said predator. Doctor John Watson, Ex-soldier, veterinarian and humanitarian. And I... I am the predator who tried to eat a friend." Sherlock lowered his head to stare into John's eyes intensely, attempting to communicate with the hedgehog on another plane unreadable to most.

And God, was it extremely heartening to hear and see.

John felt his heart thrumming in his throat, and would have been sweating nervously by now under that gaze had he been human. But no—he wasn't too sure if these traits were occurring because of the change, or if it was—something... Else...

Sherlock's forehead met John's quietly, bringing him back to the present in the least fussy fashion the soldier could ever have imagined, just resting there. It was a long, peaceful moment, and while John wanted so badly to ask why his friend was doing this—what it _meant_—he really had no intentions of disrupting the moment at all.

Luckily for him, he wouldn't have to—someone else did it for him.

The duo whirled when they heard the loud crashing and yowling in the bathroom, Sherlock moving to cover his friend at once. The otter, ever alert, tucked John in his scarf and made his way towards the source of the sounds raptly, sprinting until one of his short legs caught on the carpet, leaving Sherlock on his belly, sliding at the same speed as he'd been running before tragically crashing head-first into the wall before the bathroom.

"Ow," he mumbled, shaking his head in a daze. "John? John!" He prodded the scarf back to life, where John had been flipped, but otherwise unharmed.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft roared, and the duo ran to the closed door, alarmed.

"Mycroft! Are you all right?" John called.

"No! Yes! Not exactly!"

"Oh my God," Sherlock murmured, appalled.

"What, what?" The Hedgehog demanded.

"We need to open that door, John. He no longer has the capacity to do it himself." The detective stated, squaring his furry brown shoulders.

"What?" John replied, dazed. "Don't tell me-"

"Hey, you two—what's going on?" Another voice asserted behind them, making the two jump.

They turned about and looked up into the kind gray face of DI Lestrade, who had made his way into the flat unseen so far, kneeling to better converse with the otter and hedgehog, who were quite distressed.

"My brother cannot get out of the bathroom," Sherlock repeated, monotonously, face suddenly blank. "Could you open the door for him, please, Lestrade? And possibly brace yourself—I'm not too sure what state he could be in at the moment."

The Detective Inspector's face went red to the roots of his hair, but hesitantly agreed to open the door.

"John, move back," Sherlock sharply instructed, retreating a good foot or so backwards, away from the door.

"Sherlock, what-?" John didn't finish, as the man before them opened the bathroom door. His eyebrows flew up in disbelief as he made his way inside, just a little, and knelt down to pick up a fat, gray tabby.

"Is this some kind of joke?" He choked, glancing nervously between the cat and Sherlock, who was very desperately trying not to laugh. The younger brother failed, and rolled onto his back snorting laughter, while the hedgehog stared doubtfully at the cat—apparently Mycroft now—as Greg lowered him to the ground.

It seemed to be very much Mycroft, still wearing his black tie around his neck, carrying himself in a powerful, proud prowess, and wearing a judging expression as he stared down at the duo in contempt.

"No, Detective Inspector, your eyes are not fooling you," the cat stated in disgust.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a menace to society," he thundered from his high perch in Gregory's arms, making no sign of moving from that position despite the arm owner's obvious discomfort. "Not only did you manage to _become_ an animal, quite literally this time, but you also are _contagious_. Through _biting_. Do you understand the implications of this disease we've all managed to contract?"

The hedgehog stilled, but Sherlock continued to laugh loudly, boisterously rolling onto his side and clutching his belly. "You—you imprinted on a man, Mycroft Holmes! I have no quarrels on your choice, but-" He heaved many heavy breaths before continuing. "You, Mycroft. A cat."

Sherlock continued laughing at his brother's expense, who only seemed to grow more agitated, but seemingly had no desire to leave the comfort of Greg's hold, which had tightened in the exception that Mycroft did actually attack his brother.

"Imprint?" John muttered lowly, wracking his own memory for the definition he'd remembered seeing somewhere. Finally, it resurfaced, and John remembered the textbook definition as best he could.

_Imprint (v.): A major point in an animals' life during which it creates a strong—and often times intimate—bond shortly after being acquainted with an object or, more often, another organism. Oh, yes, right!_

He opened his eyes to stare curiously at Mycroft now; _was this imprinting thing just solely what happened to Mycroft, or had that happened to Sherlock and himself after their own changes?_

John wasn't sure, but he was suddenly grateful that neither he or Sherlock were imprinted upon by Mycroft—it seemed a terribly uncomfortable experience for poor Lestrade and it probably would've been far worse had it been someone else.

"I... Okay, well, at least that extra fish I bought will go to use," he remarked, shocking himself back to reality and shakily making his way back to the sitting area, dumping cat-Mycroft onto the couch gracelessly and reaching into the plastic bags that smelled of fish, spices and fruit.

"Here—I brought a bunch of types, just 'cuz they were on a sale of sorts. Something about an assortment. Anyways, here." He pulled out the packages, and, much to John and Sherlock's cheer, had a good variety of sizes and species of already-cleaned and de-boned fish, making the rest of the week seem much brighter and less stressful.

"Thanks, Graham," Sherlock finally piped up, sincere for once. It surprised John, Mycroft and Lestrade, who was also slightly exasperated.

"It's Greg, and you're welcome," he replied, sighing wearily, but smiling good-naturedly. "Well, I'd best be off," he said after a long pause, scratching the back of his head. His dark eyes flicked down to Mycroft for just a moment before returning back to Sherlock's, just long enough to make the otter's eyes narrow slightly.

"Take my brother out with you—dump him in the streets if you must. He can always handle himself. And not to mention he could truly afford to lose all that fat." He said coldly.

"Sherlock!" Both John and Mycroft spoke in sync, one appalled and the other completely insulted.

"What?" He turned to face the duo, eyes frighteningly cold, before he looked back to Lestrade. The man paused, looking down at the suddenly stricken cat, the icy otter, and the uncertain hedgehog.

"Sherlock, you can't keep your brother here just until you-" Greg hedged, but the otter would have none of it.

"Nooo, you take him and get out if you feel so sentimental about it." The little brother hissed, a little too insistent for John's liking. The hedgehog narrowed his eyes, but stayed silent. _What was this crazy genius doing?!_

"I... All right, fine!" Lestrade all but threw his arms up in the air, grabbing a package of fish from the plastic shopping bag and scooping the fat tabby up and off the ground with a grunt. "You can't exactly go home, Mycroft; you're going to need a confidante for a while until this is all sorted out. Let Anthea know if you desire so." Sherlock told him, already bored, turning to face John and—shockingly—take the hedgehog in his short forepaws and curl up lazily.

The look that Mycroft gave his back was filled with a strange type of disdain, a fondness creeping into his eyes despite his completely obvious dislike for the detective's response and attitudes. Finally, the cat turned to face Lestrade, now completely submissive and surprisingly bashful. "It appears that, er... I may require trustworthy lodgings," he admitted with a frown. The Detective Inspector paused thoughtfully.

"Eh, why not. I'll just let the wife know that I picked up... Hm, the cat of a murder victim... Or something..."

"Oh yes, about that wife... She's sleeping with someone else now. He's a librarian, this time." Sherlock interjected.

"No no, it's actually an office worker—didn't you notice the sleeves?" Mycroft interjected.

There was a pause before Sherlock turned, then realized his mistake, and consented with surprisingly little fuss. He went back to cuddling John (Again with that word—he'd really have to question the usage of it within the next few days, really), rubbing his cheek against his sides, making the hedgehog only slightly uncomfortable.

The DI's expression was exasperated, once again, and he rolled his eyes to the ceiling before turning away, back towards the door. "Right, then—I'll just take this guy back with me, then, and I'm just a phone call away if you need me."

The hedgehog gave Lestrade an apologetic grimace over Sherlock's shoulder, and watched them leave. There was a long silence during which they heard the banging of doors opening and closing, then a lasting silence.

"Sherlock, how did you know Mycroft had imprinted on Greg?" John asked curiously. "I mean, it's all very good and accurate, but... Well, how could you _tell_?"

The otter cooed, and looked at John thoughtfully. "Cats have always had a very... vocal body language, I suppose you could say. Not only were Mycroft's pupils contracting in that way, but he very clearly oriented his body to face Lestrade's, didn't you notice? He was very focused on him, and didn't show nearly as much openness to either of us as he had earlier before this... Incident."

Sherlock suddenly lay back and pressed his paws together.

"I miss my nicotine patches." He muttered, balancing John on his belly with a little grimace.

_So, obviously Moriarty didn't do this—the crime rates haven't risen above normal, and there haven't been any particularly intricate ones as of late, so that option is out. Then there is the concept that Mycroft was bitten by me, then transformed into an animal... So that means this is contagious through bite, possibly saliva and blood mixing; a virus, then? No... It would affect our DNA similarly, and we were both completely different species of animal after the change was made... We would both have at least been part of the same family tree, but clearly that's not how it works. Mycroft imprinted, too—it's possibly evident that John and I did the same thing, but... I don't want to dive particularly into that topic as of this moment... Oh yes, the vents... I haven't had Lestrade nor his team check... I should probably rule that out, but seeing as it's been running for a few days straight without contaminating Lestrade, and considering the amount of time it took for the contaminant to take effect on Mycroft... I would say that option is definitely out, yes._

John sighed, peacefully settling into the downy fur of the detective's belly and enjoying the affection while he could—any form of this sentiment was often shunned by his best friend, and as such he was going to milk whatever he could get out of it comfortably.

However, after an hour of thought, he became restless, and it seemed that Sherlock was in his processing mood; he wouldn't be more than a vegetable for another hour or so, John reasoned, and decided to get to work in eating some of the smaller fish variety, considering his weight and size.

After picking apart one of these little fillets, he trekked back over to the cushion, still on the floor where it'd been before the whole Mycroft-is-now-a-cat mess, and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, taking care to try and sleep while the sun was still out. He passed out in a grateful bliss, curled up and warm from what was left of the remaining sunlight.

He was woken up when he felt movement nearby, groggily blinking open to find Sherlock settling around him on the cushion, attempting to fit around his sprawled-out friend with difficulty. "Sherlock?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, hi, John, hello." He certainly seemed embarrassed, going so far as to look sheepish, but made no move to get away.

"Why are you... Um, y'know." He didn't even know why he asked, he didn't particularly care at the moment for anything else besides possibly getting more sleep, anyway.

"I'm just... You seemed cold. I decided that you would do better off if you had something warm nearby, and... That was going to have to be me..." He grew more quiet as he spoke until John just couldn't hear him anymore, and groaned, adjusting himself so Sherlock could better snuggle up to him, and tucked his face into his friend's scarf. "Mmmkay, well, I'm going back to sleep, Sherlock. I don't want to do this... whatever this is, right now." They settled back in, and surprisingly, both of them fell asleep quickly, easily, and comfortably.

Neither animal noticed the scuffling overhead.


	4. Chapter 4: The Magician's Kiss

**A/N: Let's assume for the sake of the story that the flat has a vent above the bookshelf, in two places in the sitting area, one in each of the boys' rooms, above the stairs, and a couple in the kitchen. Really, just everywhere we've seen around the flat in-canon. I tried to check it out but… There wasn't much info for me to work with. Anyways, those are important, enjoy, and we'll soon be seeing the end of this story~! Thanks for sticking with me and leaving such kind reviews, guys, you're all amazing~! 8w8/**

* * *

******Chapter 4: The Magician's Kiss**

The next two weeks were monotonous, and seriously took a toll on the cohabitation of otter and hedgehog alike—Lestrade would bring a clingy Mycroft by before work, dropping him off so as to keep him from being nosy in his home and returning later in the afternoon, often times not returning until a ridiculously late time at night. He'd walk in on John and Sherlock's new sleep situation, curled up on the Union Jack, and exchange looks with the elder Holmes brother that clearly questioned the integrity of the duo's "friendship".

Still, while it was definitely stimulating to have something other than run aimlessly about the flat, think, eat, sleep, drink and poop (not in that order, of course!), John found himself developing cabin fever fairly quickly. He'd kept Sherlock from putting Mycroft's tail in a mousetrap, prevented the cat from "accidentally" getting Sherlock's head trapped in his own skull (Poor Billy), and included not drowning himself in the bathtub—Sherlock insisted that he'd "accidentally" pushed John in, and dove in to save him, only to find him contentedly floating on his back in a relatively lazy manner. Needless to say, Mycroft had scoffed at them both from his view on the sink, and Sherlock had been quite irritated until he'd shaken out water all over the feline and John had curled up with him for at least ten minutes, much to his and the elder Holmes brother's amusement.

Unfortunately for him, he hadn't been able to stop Mycroft from turning his brother into a bridge-slash-slip-n-slide from time to time, nor Sherlock actually trapping Mycroft in his own umbrella (How he'd managed was nearly impossible to guess, especially what with him being so _clever _and all). John had gotten the most out of Sherlock and Mycroft's animal natures, though; thanks to such high intelligences, they required any and all activity to expel that energy.

John did it with a mirror and a laser pointer.

Mycroft hissed whenever John pointed it at the wall, quickly lashing at the little red glow with a clawed paw, while Sherlock desperately tried to keep up to it's moving ways with his much shorter legs and massive levels of energy. When on the ground, Sherlock would be the first to get to the spot, and possibly bowl Mycroft over whenever the opportunity arose; they were really never bored now, and John was healthily entertained.

He showed the tactic to Lestrade, who burst out laughing, and was brought to tears by this revelation, even with Mycroft purring methodically in his lap as the Detective inspector ran his fingers through the scruff on the back of his neck. His scowl even broke a little whenever this happened, despite John's teasing. He knew Sherlock would make him pay when Mycroft and Greg left, though-probably dangling him off the ground in his mouth again, he reasoned. But it was worth it.

Things at 221B Baker Street had never been so strange, and probably wouldn't ever come as far again.

Unfortunately, things eventually became difficult in the flat as well-Mycroft had to keep up his government work, and because most of it was confidential, ended up having to use Sherlock's room as his office. John had offered his own as an alternative, but the cat had reasoned that it would be much more proper to attend to his business in his own family member's room, rather than invade the space of another.

John didn't really understand it but consented; Sherlock was a real pain to deal with afterwards, scowling briefly at him and slinking about grumpily. He didn't mind when John had requested-more like begged-Lestrade to find _something_ to entertain the detective; he'd snuggled John cheerfully for ten minutes after Lestrade had brought him a ration of teeth, tongues, and fingers, then bounded to work on them.

John swore at Sherlock later after finding that, _somehow_, he'd managed to stow these away in the refrigerator (John was vaguely sure that Mycroft had had something to do with that as well) and nearest the fish that they were planning to eat. He was suddenly getting the suspicious idea that Sherlock did that on purpose, but didn't voice it, and spent the rest of the day typing out the difficulties of his life recently, as well as the turn of events. He'd tried to keep the whole concept of being animals out of his recent entries, a goal he'd so far kept up, and instead said they were out of town, spending time on a "Detective's Retreat", covering the reasoning for why they wouldn't answer the door, weren't taking cases, and why their friend (the detective inspector) was looking after their flat while they were out.

It was a neat process, even if Sherlock had just ended up scoffing at him after reading it, then proceeding to prod the bits of enamel leftover from his tooth-crushing experiment.

Sherlock's mind, too, was proving to be just as problematic as his brother and best friend's work was; it'd been a few weeks without a case, with this personal one being painfully engrossing. So far, no contaminants had been discovered in the flat-the ventilation system had been searched and tested, as had the fireplace, their cutlery and dishes, with nothing majorly distinct or different besides otter, cat and hedgehog fur. They'd even gone so far as to check their bedrooms, their clothing, with no result. He was becoming frustrated, and examined their windows and furniture closely.

His little blonde friend had even requested that Mycroft assist him in his search for something, anything indicative. While both were relatively begrudging about it, they worked alongside one another well enough, tracing detail after detail around the flat fruitlessly. They were becoming cloudy-eyed, frustrated and hopeless, and more and more discouraged each day.

Only John and Lestrade provided any relief for this frustration-rather than the useless berating and tantrums Sherlock had often given John, he instead resorted to being groomed and fussed over by John to cheer him up, more amused and amicable after these little sessions. Mycroft himself had taken to curling up in Lestrade's lap and having the frustration stroked and scratched and rubbed out of mind, instead becoming engrossed with the extreme levels of comfort he experienced there. It was a sobering experience for the two Holmes brothers-they could rely so heavily on these people and go unjudged and comforted without retribution of any kind. The concept of becoming so intimate with someone that had once been so repulsive to them now did not seem to be as disgusting and undesirable as they'd first thought.

On Day 24 of this, Sherlock was busily examining the now-rotted enamel cells of the tooth he'd been experimenting with earlier when Mycroft quietly padded in behind him.

"Mycroft," he acknowledged, not bothering to look up. The cat said nothing, prompting him to turn and see.

He looked particularly fat and lazy today, in Sherlock's eyes, but his frame exuded a rather resigned aura.

"Sherlock," he finally returned. John was sleeping-in his room, for once!-and would not be disturbed or awoken any time soon.

There was a long pause of scrutiny on both sides, and after a long while, Mycroft spoke. "It appears… We both may have made the same mistake."

"If it is a mistake, it would need fixing," Sherlock spoke slowly. "I, for one, don't agree with your suggestion."

"I haven't suggested anything."

"No, but you were going to," the otter accused.

"If I was the one who imprinted on a man, Sherlock, it was you who imprinted on a hedgehog."

"Well, that's not exactly indicative."

"Of course not-but then it does give you an excuse," Mycroft retorted.

There was a silence.

"Whatever would I… Be hiding?" Sherlock challenged, hesitating. His brother snorted.

"It's not a question of what you're _hiding_, brother, it's what you've _been _repressing, long before this… mess."

"And you?" Sherlock countered angrily, voice raising. "You haven't exactly been the role model for this kind of thing, either! And what's worse! You've fallen prey to it, too, _Mycroft Holmes_."

"Sherlock, I'm not trying to provoke you," the cat replied complacently, ears twitching nervously as he glanced around.

"Then what, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped, shaking out his brown fur and smoothing it down.

"I'm asking what you intend to do, and whether it would be the best course of action to take."

Sherlock was appalled, and stunned into silence. Then his eyes narrowed. "Why would I tell you? Why not make your own decisions and plans for your own so-called _mistake?_"

"It is not in my power to-"

"What do you mean 'Not in your power'? You're the bloody _Government_, you can-" Sherlock interjected.

"Sherlock, ENOUGH! He is _married_, although poorly, and any bastard taking advantage of another like that is wrong, however way you look at it!" Mycroft snapped, hackles raised. His tail lashed back and forth as he waited for that to process in his younger brother's mind, and claws flexed free of their fluffy shields, raking the carpet once before retracting obediently.

Sherlock finally blinked back to reality. "Oh. Oh yes… Of course." _It wasn't as if Mycroft wouldn't,_he realized slowly. _It was more that Mycroft just _couldn't _completely make his "mistake." Not fully. Not like he'd wanted to. Not like Sherlock could._

"What would you do, had you the opportunity to do what you liked?" He asked, sincerely now.

"I'd do what I wanted. And possibly make sure that... _Woman_, that _wife of his, _if she can even be declared as that, isn't found, and pays for whatever she did." The menace in his eyes was sincere and deadly, and for a moment Sherlock wasn't sure whether the shiver was caused by fear of Mycroft himself or the thought of what he would do to Greg's wife of sorts.

"It's not like you can't exactly do that, Mycroft-he wouldn't let you directly interfere with his wife, you know, but it's not nearly impossible." Intrigued, the cat took this suggestion calmly, although his tail did curl a little bit in hope.

"And you? For John?" He eyed Sherlock meaningfully.

It was Sherlock's turn to think, and grimaced at the thought of telling his brother something so honestly without any form of inhibitions. He despised it even, but he'd made a deal.

_What would I do in regards to Doctor John Watson? What _could _I do? _Oh.

The answer was suddenly easy, shockingly clear, painfully simple.

"I would make him _mine._"

On the last word, his low voice struck a chord that was deep and possessive and strong-one that his elder brother seemed to approve of.

"Well, then brother-if you wish to proceed in that direction, a collaborative coup d' etat of boundaries would be in order, don't you think?"

There was a rumbling in Sherlock's mind, but when he came to, Mycroft could sense the conclusion both had resolved; the brothers smiled a dark, secretive smile at one another.

"_The Game is On_."

"Oi, Sherlock, _Hannibal_ is on!" John called for his friend. He loved the gruesome show, although his constant corrections and yelling at the programme suggested otherwise, and he was pretty sure that his explaining that "staying up to date with some pop culture was helpful with _some_ cases" thing was just an excuse to watch it.

There was a silence, then a hiss in response from the kitchen. As John worriedly trekked over, he absently wondered where the cat had gotten off to-certainly not anything good. When he arrived in the kitchen, there was a sight to see, and an immediately telling of why he'd received only a hiss in response.

The otter's tail was tied to the armrest of a chair with a shoelace, his forelegs knotted up in his scarf and back legs suspended in midair, face flat on the ground and looking extraordinarily irritated.

John paused, drinking the sight in and trying not to laugh. "Experiment?" He managed. Sherlock growled at him instead, squirming and trying to stand; he merely succeeded in rolling onto his back, stranding himself further.

At this, his flatmate broke face and laughed as he clambered onto his friend's belly and successfully jumped onto the chair using his friend's foot as leverage. "How did you manage this?" He chortled, slowly working through the knots.

"Mycroft," Sherlock explained. _When he said "damsel in distress"-type of situation, I was more hoping that it would be _John _as the one in distress, not _me. _I really need to let go of that apprehension,_ he thought with a sigh.

"Oh be patient," John told him, thinking it was impatience that motivated such a sound. "You'll get out of this soon enough, ya git."

After about twenty minutes of thumbless untying, Sherlock finally slipped free, landing on his back with a loud _whump! _He removed his forepaws from the scarf, reached up to get John and bring him down, then continued with him in his mouth to the TV. They then settled down on the cushion, John comfortably settled between the otter's forelegs. He affectionately snuggled down into his friend's downey chocolate fur, mindful of the spikes on his back as Sherlock tucked his head beside him without a word.

From the shelf he hadn't moved from since he'd lasso'd his brother's tail to the chair, Mycroft smirked. "Your move, little brother," he murmured, bunching himself up as well to enjoy the show and remain hidden.

* * *

Sherlock was more direct in his approach.

He'd brooded long and hard about the situation before, decidedly, shoving Mycroft vehemently into his umbrella in front of Lestrade, shutting it with the weight of his body and kicking it down the stairs to Ms Hudson's flat.

"Oi! What in God's name do you think you're doing?!" The Detective Inspector yelped, through Mycroft's terrified hissing and yowling as he finally banged and crashed his way to a halt. "Hey, Mycroft!" He bolted down after the cat, taking great care to draw him out of the death trap of an umbrella and hold him tightly to his chest, checking him over carefully.

When they returned to the flat, Mycroft was shaking, eyes wide, but he still managed to muster up a scowl at Sherlock, so he shrugged and decided that no harm had been done, and that he'd done his duty as a brother. Of course, John gave him a disapproving glance, but said nothing, having adapted to seeing stranger things, and much more brutish acts committed by his flatmate. He simply settled in further, careful not to poke his friend as he nestled in beside him.

"Sherlock!" Greg scolded him, fingers soothing the cat in his arms. "Blimey, if I'd have known you were this lethal to him every day I wouldn't have left him here!" He cursed."He's in shock!"

"Oh yes, because I do this every minute of the day," the otter snarked back, lazily lounging on the cushion, content with the hedgehog tucked into his side. With a little prodding of his hidden hind foot, he got John to jump in. "Oh no, just every other hour."

Sherlock snorted irritably, but lowered his head down near John's and snuggled in, once, just to show his gratitude. John accepted this hesitantly as Lestrade fussed worriedly over the cat, muttering something under his breath about bringing Mycroft to work with him instead of leaving him at 221B Baker Street. Despite the possible injuries Mycroft might have sustained, the expression that could clearly be recognized as contentment sat upon his feline maw.

"Your move," Sherlock piped up, seemingly to no one, folding around John and now fully paying attention to the crap telly they were watching. John opened his mouth, perhaps to make a comment, but the glance his friend sent him kept him quiet. "You're welcome," he muttered back in response.

"Sherlock-did you hear that?" John demanded a few days after. Sherlock raised a brow.

"If you heard it, then I probably did-what was it?"

"The scuffling! In the ceiling! Again-and it _clanged_ this time! Something is definitely moving around up there."

There was a pregnant pause in which John felt that scrutinizing gaze crawl down his form.

"I'll have George take a look when he comes back; Mycroft scheduled a meeting with me at some time today… I think in an hour or so? Check my phone." Sherlock finally said, dismissively, waving his paw lazily.

There was another sound, this time one that Sherlock could hear. It was almost silent, but definitely there, and moving at a consistent, speedy pace about that made his senses jump to alert almost at once.

"Vatican Cameos?" John asked uncertainly.

"No-that won't help us here," Sherlock growled, frustrated, yet excited. He swept John under his body and stuffed him into his scarf, looking for a quick entrance into the ventilation system.  
"It's an animal," the otter's brow creased. "Not a regular one, either-that running about is much too intelligent. Much too sentient for any average animal, or an advanced one. Perhaps someone was affected like we were…!"

He backed up, finding what he was looking for, lunging onto the chair, then scrambling onto the ledge above the fireplace, and quickly scaling the bookshelf with quick leaps and indefinitely scraping marks into the shelves as he scaled it.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock for God's sakes, be careful!"_ John yelped, having nearly collided with the woodwork more than once.  
The banging about above their heads paused for one second, the calm almost unsettling, before it continued with a more panicked fervor, now followed by yelping and the clicking of long claws.  
"There's more than one thing up there-we need to go. Now!" Sherlock huffed, scrambling up and clawing the vent open with hasty persistence, quickly dragging them up and inside.

The smell inside was stale, and it was excessively dark-now Sherlock was out of his element. Luckily, his friend was not. "You can hear them-where are they?" John demanded, blinking and adjusting to the dark metallic interior. After a pause, Sherlock turned his head to the right. "They're over the stairwell. Let's go."

The duo rushed over quickly, John taking the end of Sherlock's scarf in his mouth as he ran just so the otter would stop banging face-first into the walls that he couldn't see. During this trek, they changed direction twice, as did the animals they were following.

"Watch out!" Someone cried, feminine in voice and frantic in tone.  
John flattened himself and Sherlock against the sides of the vent, narrowly avoiding what looked like an otter sliding past. It hit the wall behind them with a painful bang, and turned to face the creature it'd been running from.  
"You two need to go, move!" It yelped as a hideous, torn-up and much too large raccoon rounded the corner with a snarl. Its predatory teeth were orange-yellow, huge claws thick and sharp. It seemed a miracle in itself that it fit in the vents, and moved at the speed it did. _It couldn't be truly called a raccoon_, Sherlock noted absently as John dragged him back; _the thing was too large and too strong to be a standard raccoon. And how are the vents still supporting our weight?_

As if in response, the tunnels groaned in warning, threatening to collapse under them. Sherlock finally put in effort to escape, shoving John into his scarf and following the opposing otter as they made their way back to the original entrance.

"Sherlock?! John?! Is that you?!" Lestrade's voice cried out .  
Frustrated, John replied. "Where the hell have you been?" He shouted back.  
"Are you two in the vents?!"  
"YES! Now get your gun and get ready to shoot! Two otters and one hedgehog coming through-the thing following is what you want!" Sherlock roared, panting, finally slipping through the exit, beating the other otter out. He snatched the ledge of the shelf, hugging it tightly and leaving deep dents and scratches in the dark wood. The other otter followed suit, only in a more feline and collected manner.

Gunshots followed shortly after-two, to be precise-and one dead, rabid-looking creature hit the floor in a loud thump. There was a quick catlike yowl, a swift-according to Sherlock, also fat-blur of grey and black, and Mycroft had the other otter pinned down under his claws, sitting heavily on its back and incapacitating it.  
"Nice shot," John choked, watching as the silver-haired man tucked the gun away and retrieved the two from the height and very pointedly not looking at the strange now dead animal on the ground or what Mycroft was laying on.

"You're unusual." Sherlock mused when they'd been lowered, addressing the otter under his brother's feet. "Who are you?"

The animal was strange-its fur was almost a bronze, mahogany in color and a lighter cream down its belly and strange markings on its face-like a killer whale, the detective noted. It had horns, although nubby, large ears, and cat-like paws, unwebbed and clawed. The most noticeable factor, though, were the wings on its back-long enough to glide and carry this creature. It was significantly burned into the four humans'-to whatever extent-memories as the most unique animal they'd ever seen.

"Uhm. Hi," it squeaked. "I'm Trinity, yes, hi, um. You're big." This last sentence was squeaked out breathlessly at Mycroft, earning her raised eyebrows of disbelief and irritation. John very nearly let out a hysterical laugh.

"Mycroft-move. You're crushing the... thing." John's brow furrowed, studying the creature. "Er, what are you?"  
Now freed, the creature sat up, proudly but ego clearly wounded. "You couldn't tell? I'm a dragon! Not your regular kind, though, I think-more like, the just-passing-through kind." It sounded sheepish now.  
"Passing through?" Lestrade grimaced, staring at the strange predator now.  
"Yes!" A vigorous nod. "I'm an otter dragon of sorts. I come from another Universe-and we see _a lot_ of things, by the way…" A silence. "Um. But basically, I was passing through here. This one. One of the things I've seen was you there, see-I'm kind of a big fan. So-"  
"So you stopped here, just to see us, I presume, and caused this… anomaly, of sorts, to plague us," Sherlock finished impatiently. "But how?"

Affronted, it sat on its haunches and put its paws on its hips, almost unreal in its cartoony nature. "I was trying to leave some magic in the place-you know, good luck and higher odds for cases and things for you guys. Nothing harmful, more of a good wish. But, ah… I might have _accidentally _bitten someone in their sleep…" Now really sheepishly, she bowed her head. "I got hungry, and I'm sorry! I meant for this to be harmless and quick and easy, and… Well, as you obviously know, it's contagious."

Mycroft hissed, and batted her with his paw. "Don't apologize-fix it and be on your way!"  
A sly look came into Trinity's eyes. "What, you haven't figured out the cure? Magic and spells have three ways to be broken, where I come from: death, deals, or love. Most prefer the latter to the prior two though. I'm surprised-you almost had it a few days ago, too-and you two were the closest to having it figured out!" She exclaimed, dodging the swipe of Mycroft's paw again this time. Obviously, she was only going to spill riddles, but had given them a lot of information, too.

"Fine. What about that thing?" Greg prodded the cooling corpse with his foot.  
"Oooohhh-that's from my realm, I think, but it's normally a totally peaceful species. I assume that one is the one that bit Moriarty and his tiger friend awhile back and-"

"Wait wait wait wait, _what_?! You know who that is and where he-" John blurted, stunned.  
"No! I was going to ask him, but he kind of went crazy-those two were a lizard and a tiger, so I heard! But they fixed their spell, naturally, with a deal. That deal's probably what made this guy go crazy. I should take him back soon…" She faltered slightly under their intense stares. "What?"  
"You're not going anywhere until you fix the damage done here. And perhaps not even then."  
A snort. "That's an attempt at coercing me-and definitely _not_ a deal. How's this-I'll stick around until you figure out how to break your… dilemma. But it's really not that hard." The otter-dragon, whatever it was-crossed its paws and fixed the group with narrowed, hard, double-colored eyes. "If you take longer than two weeks, though, I'm leaving and taking you three with me. We always need new recruits."

"Fine! It's a deal. John, Lestrade-do what you want with her. Just don't let her escape."  
There was a knowing look in Trinity's eyes as the Holmes brothers headed for Sherlock's room to conference.  
She flew after them, just a little flutter of wings, landing beside them to whisper something.  
"Hey, you two, here's a hint-ever heard of _Sleeping Beauty?_"

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know, long chapter is long-I'm sorry! X'DDD But hopefully you enjoyed it a bit?  
And I know, self-inserts are nasty-but how are you supposed to get this lovely plot twist without Trinity? We have our reasons, I promise. Anyways, this has another chapter to go before it's done, and maybe an epilogue depending on the feedback I receive~!  
**

**Vatican Cameos: A WWII code used by the Allies to indicate "duck" or "cover" secretly; it was often used in situations in which one party had a gun upon entering the room or something of the like. One of the Allies would call out "Vatican Cameos" and the others in the room would duck or get cover to avoid a bullet being put in their head. ;3c Unusual, hm? **


	5. Chapter 5: The End Of Line

**A/N: **Yes, I know-Trinity here is _terrible_ for not submitting her chapters at the deadline, but to be honest-this chapter was brutal for me to write. 8w8/ Whatever the case is, I apologize for having you all wait so long, but here, have a long chapter! Also, one more chapter before an epilogue, and I've already started on that, so hopefully your wait will be no longer than the usual 1 week at the most~! Also, if you have any ideas, leave me a few prompts for some fics through here, or my tumblr account. C: I'm superwholockian-otter there, by the way... Now, enough of my rambling-Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 5: End of Line**

In reality, as they looked back, they really should have paid more attention to her.

Sherlock and Mycroft ended up downloading and watching the key scenes of Disney's Sleeping Beauty, namely the portions involving the spell and the end, swearing to themselves and each other that they'd never mention this event to themselves or anyone else.#"She did say love-was she meaning that we were supposed to…?" Sherlock couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, embarrassed. Mycroft, equally so but still icy, agreed. "Or it could be the death of that princess, too… But I'd prefer not to take that method."#"There weren't any deals made in the film, though-I assume she'll want us to use the prior strategy, although I still distrust her. Would you do it, though?" Sherlock taunted.#"I'd worry minimally for myself, brother," Mycroft stated, sitting up straight, eying him sternly, chest puffed up and fluffy.

This stand off ended when Mycroft growled, startling Sherlock, and suggested that they continue to think, plan and work, being absolutely thorough in their ministrations. They were in the room for at least an hour when the two brothers finally formed a complete plan of attack-either to make a Deal, or attempt the... Love, portion of the spell breaker-they made their way out of their "office" and back into the sitting room.

John was warily eying the creature, the dragon, whatever, while Lestrade had taken the dead thing out of the room to be dealt with at a later time, much to the otter dragon's disapproval as she watched him put the thing in one of Sherlock's larger extra Evidence Bags (he always had one, the git!) and shove it in the freezer in an exasperated fashion.

"We've decided on a course of action, gentlemen. I will monitor the situation and the two of us will remain confidential with the details of our plan." Mycroft announced, regally seating himself to the right of his brother, his expression clear of anything that could not be taken seriously. He sniffed once, then pointedly looked at Sherlock.

"Trinity, wasn't it?" Sherlock turned to the other otter in the room on cue, who pursed her lips and turned. "Hm?"

"If my brother and I do not break the spell by your two week condition, we must ask- will you let John be free here with Lestrade? And Mrs Hudson? We will go willingly, provided that they are spared."

The otter scrutinized him with her eyes cautiously, thoughtfully, while Lestrade and John struggled for words, stunned into silence.

"I know you Holmeses- you're incredibly good at making deals with loopholes in them! So! If you do follow through, no loopholes, no trying to get out of this, I'll do ya one better-I'll free them, AND lift their spells. Do we have a bargain?"

The brothers growled, but nodded in reluctant defeat, gritting their teeth. Smugly, the she-otter fluttered her wings free of dirt, sat on her haunches, and settled there. "All righty then, it's settled! I'm going to go re-align a few things with my boss fairly quickly...!"

With that, she made for the windows, and flew out before she could be stopped.

"SHERLOCK!"

The otter yelped out a squeak as a hedgehog toppled him over, growling profanities and spikes flared out in anger.

"What the hell Sherlock!" He spat. "Why'd you do that?!"

His friend blinked owlishly, surprised. "I-I surmised that this would be what you wanted, John...! After all, you seemed to be so intent on continuing your human life again, and it seemed only rational that I make this deal. I did not mean to drag you into this, as it clearly was my doing that brought this upon us. For that, I am sorry, and I hope this does not make bad blood between us. I do not wish for you to be enforced or enslaved as the creature suggested we might be, had we not broken the spell. I refuse to take risks and gambles as bad as these with you."

John swore under his breath, angered resolve weakening. "God damn it." He numbly rolled away from his friend, and padded off towards the kitchen.

"I... Well. I think I ought to be..." Lestrade finally came to life again, and Mycroft swiveled and leapt at him, as if to say _Don't forget about me!_

Greg barely caught him in time with a grunt, cradling him thoughtfully. "We're gonna have to talk when we get home, Mike."

There was a hiss of disapproval as he was fixed to sit around his shoulders, with Mycroft arguing feebly, "Is this really necessary?!" and "don't call me that!" as they left the flat.

"Sherlock, John, we'll be back in a few hours with things necessary for the... Otter thing."

Still on his back, and gazing up at the ceiling, Sherlock returned no response. "I need to think," he muttered, and made his way to the bathroom.

Naturally, he struggled to fill the bathtub with warm water, but succeeded only because a rather resigned hedgehog tottered in and helped him do so. He stripped his scarf off, and dove in, returning to the surface to offer his friend a ride on his belly.

John complied, wordless as he settled into damp, soft fur, thoughtful as Sherlock waded around a bit.

There was a long silence, in which both friends were unsure of their standing with one another, but neither were bold enough to speak up about it. Finally, Sherlock decided to say something.

"So, John, are we-"

"Good? Yes, we're good. It's fine, it's all... Fine." John finally looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze and smiling a bit, although it didn't reach his eyes.

"Are we, though?" The otter grimaced slightly, and held onto John tightly. "Never mind, don't answer that," he ordered hoarsely, tiredly.

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"This, this thing you do, with your paws. You hold onto me, even in your sleep!"

"Is it a bad thing?" Sherlock asked, suddenly wondering if he should be feeling sheepish right about now. He doesn't have the heart to be at the moment, however.

"No, not necessarily... It's just, ah, odd."

"Oh. Fitting for an odd consulting detective, though, hm?" The otter grinned cheekily. His friend smiled back at him, again, this time more sincerely.

"All right-you said you needed to think. Go ahead, do your thing." John finally piped up. A little reluctantly, Sherlock put John back on the edge of the tub, where he toppled over the edge easily and onto the ground.

"I'll see ya in a few hours," he called after himself as he left the bathroom. Sherlock made a noncommital sound as he sank back into the water. Yes, he would. But now that he had a countdown, every moment mattered.

Now how would he tell John that?

* * *

Mycroft hissed disagreeably when Lestrade arrived home-his wife was out once more. _Cheating after work again,_ thought Mycroft in disgust as he watched the man prepare a meal for himself.

"Fish again today, Mycroft?" He called amicably, chopping something up with a knife.

"... Why did our deal bother you?" The cat asked instead, hopping onto the counter behind him.

The cutting sounds stopped.

"It... I dunno, it seemed like... Maybe a rash decision," Greg hedged, gesturing absently with the knife, going back to cutting again, not turning to look at the cat directly.

_Fidgeting_, Mycroft corrected, eyes narrowing. "You of all people must know that we are absolutely anything and everything from hasty, Detective Inspector."

"Well, yeah, but that's _you,_ en't it? I can't trust you or your brother, since you don't tell me anything."

"True. Thank you for your concern, although it is... Unnecessary. We have already chosen our fates and made our decisions."

"Wait, you're saying that you've given up already?! Just like that?! That's not something a Holmes would be doing!" Lestrade argued hastily, thrown.

Mycroft paused for effect. "You're right. However, it is something a _Holmes_ would do for another." He admitted, ears lowering slightly, bowing his head a little anxiously. Still, when Lestrade whirled around, finally looking at him, he sat up straighter, ears up and tail curling up a bit, happy with the attention.

"What? What are you saying?" He choked, putting the knife down-celery, he'd been cutting _celery_, Mycroft noted absently, a little put off.

"It is simply an expression of our... Ahem, _concern_." Taken aback, Lestrade rubbed his temples.

"You Holmes brothers are so complicated," he complained after a moment. "All right, fine. I guess I can't be too upset with you making your own decisions."

Mycroft gazed at him for a long moment, faltering slightly. He couldn't believe his beloved DI had missed his almost-declaration of love. _Really! _Thought Mycroft, miffed. _How impractical ARE these people? Ugh, I'll have to be less subtle next time! Next time! What a mess..._

He sulkily lowered his ears and head, tail slowing to an irritated flick, hoping to throw off the Detective from his true mood.

"Take a nap, Detective Inspector," he suggested after a moment, examining the stress lines in his face and the weary expression he wore.

"I might just do that," Lestrade replied. "Right after I put this in with the boil," he continued, turning to the pot of soup sitting on the stove. Once he'd cut the vegetables properly, he shoved them into the mix, shutting it, and allowing it to boil slowly, as it had been all day. Mycroft watched cryptically as his friend made his way to his sitting room, settling into the big comfortable chair he had purchased wisely some ages ago. He covered himself with the afghan his wife had insisted to keep on the chair, shut his eyes, and settled in for the hour. While he'd filed for a divorce against her that morning, he'd kept that a secret as best he could, although he had a feeling Mycroft and Sherlock would figure it out soon.

Ah, the two Holmeses...

His thoughts were interrupted by a large weight settling on his chest suddenly, and he opened one eye to see the cat in a tie curled up over his chest, snuggling in and purring quietly. He didn't have the heart to ask him to move or wake him up, and simply allowed it, falling asleep with resignation.

* * *

When he woke up, Greg found Mycroft purring and nuzzling his face, and immediately grew red. "Mycroft, what are you doi-" the cat lazily propped his left paw over his mouth, silencing him properly. He moved up and gave him a little lick on the tip of the DI's nose, and, finally content, gave him one last cheek rub before removing himself and landing on the floor.

"M-Mycroft," Lestrade finally managed. "What was that about?!"

Mycroft purred, noncommittal in his response.

"It's obvious, if you'd paid any attention to what I was REALLY saying earlier, Detective Inspector. It's time to go now."

"Wait wait wait, no. We are not leaving until I have straight answers! Mycroft, what are you saying...? Is it... Do you..." At a loss for words, Greg rose and kneeled to better examine and converse with the cat, who seemed anxious and a bit irritated.

"Lestrade, you are wasting my time with your stubborn idleness! Either you take me now or-"

"Or what? Listen, Mycroft, you're not in any position to be threatening me! You're depending on me for the moment! And you're wasting your own time- I'm not going to be manipulated by your whims anymore!"

A pause.

"You knew that you were being manipulated before this," Mycroft finally spoke. "Why did you allow this to continue, then?"

The Detective Inspector turned a slightly rosier shade of pink.

"I, um. Well. I wanted to follow orders and... Aw what the hell. Who am I kidding, you'd have found out about it eventually... Er. I did it... because _you_ asked."

Taken aback, Mycroft's ears flattened, eyes widened, and he looked stricken.

"Right...! I... Ahem, I'm sorry about that, I won't be-"

"Shoosh. Give me a moment." Mycroft interrupted absently, almost forgetting to add a "Please" as his mind absorbed the information in a painfully slow manner, much like the average person's-a feat in the circumstance of the Holmes brothers.

"Greg," Mycroft articulated his first name carefully after a moment.

"I made this choice, this deal, because I-I care about you. In an amazingly strong manner... For such a short period of time. Both my brother and I wished to keep you and John safe, and for that we have gambled ourselves for you. Well, more I did this for you, rather than Doctor Watson, but please keep that factor to yourself.

"This also explains my earlier... Behavior. I'm sorry if I intruded or pressed a boundary, what with your divorce and all... I truly hadn't intended on anything with some kind of ulterior motive. Leaving seemed the best option, in all consideration... But I don't want to. If I could... I'd stay here. With you."

Both parties were quiet for a moment.

"Good kitty," Lestrade mumbled dumbly, scooping Mycroft up off the floor and into his arms, where he began to purr profusely. "Divorce or no, Mycroft, I don't think I would have minded-I really do like you." Lestrade murmured.

The gray tabby cat felt lightheaded and funny, and definitely more upbeat than he had in a long time.

"Let's get moving." Lestrade finally said to no one in particular, standing and snagging his coat as he walked out, Mycroft in his other arm.

Discreetly, he pressed his lips to the soft fur atop the Tabby's grey head as he shut the front door behind them.

* * *

When they stepped out of the cab, Mycroft and Lestrade heard a "hey!" Above their heads. They glanced up in time to see the strange animal-Trinity, wasn't it?-flutter down about their heads in an amused manner.

"Oh oh ohhhh, what is this?" She cooed, perching on Greg's head for a moment before being shooed away.

"Fine fine, I see how it is~! I was going to reset that spell, but now I can see that you don't need me to~"

"Wait, what?!" The detective inspector exclaimed.

With that, she hovered in the air beside him, passersby unaware of her as the detective inspector opened the door and she darted inside.

"How'd those people not see you?" Asked the bewildered gray-haired man. "Easy- magic. You two are the exceptions, because you made a deal with me. They did not, so they had no reason to see me. Much like the person I was _supposed_ to be seeing soon-he'd have said the same things, only in a much more science-y fashion.

"Now! Time to break a spell!" She chortled, and swooped down.

Landing on Greg's head, she pressed a paw against his forehead, reaching out to grab Mycroft's tail.

With a couple muttered incantations, she released them, and Mycroft was lowered to the ground.

"The spell reversal will begin in about half an hour, so enjoy being a cat while you still can!" Trinity dropped to the ground at that, proudly staring at the duo with mischief in her eyes.

"I magicked a cake up there for you two, by the way. Congratulations on your proclamations!" She remarked slyly, narrowly avoiding Lestrade's well-aimed kick, then racing up the stairs before either could argue, threaten her, or complain.

Exasperated, they followed her up, exchanging glances with one another and cursing her odd omniscience under their breath.

Upon arrival at the flat, Mycroft found that, yes, a large cake had indeed made it's appearance in the home, and John was busily coaxing Sherlock from their bath, and the now-lukewarm water.

"Sherlock, Mycroft's apparently broken the spell!" John persisted loudly, ignoring Lestrade's sniggers as his beloved cat circled the huge pastry edgily, as if trying to resist, but almost incapable of doing so.

He looked up at Lestrade a bit apprehensively, undecided.

"Go ahead," he laughed, and watched as Mycroft almost immediately dove into it face-first, shoveling the corner into his mouth as best he could.

"Uh-Mycroft, what are you... Never mind," John's confusion was clear as he emerged from the bathroom, soaked, followed by a grinning otter. "Greg, could you do me a favour and hand me a dish towel?" John asked, somewhat annoyed. The gray-haired man chuckled amiably enough and went to retrieve the towel, lowering it and helping John manage it as he tried to dry off. Sherlock growled and ended up taking the task out of his hands shortly, though, and with a shrug, he went to see if he could pry Mycroft away from the cake. He hastened his pace when he heard a dull thud and a hiss.

"Ugh-what was that for?!" Trinity complained. Mycroft had once again pinned her under him as he continued eating the cake.

"You bit my brother, then I was bitten by him shortly after, and to celebrate _me _breaking _your _spell, you want to eat cake. No, this is mine, thanks. I believe the detective inspector and myself are the only two qualified to eat this at this point." Mycroft argued easily; half his face was smeared with frosting, much to the DI's amusement, and his paws were coated with the stuff.

It would be no exaggeration to say that he'd managed to make a huge mess and devoured a fifth of the cake by then.

Relieved, Greg stood back and pondered as the otter and hedgehog trotted over, John in Sherlock's mouth, and he leapt up, onto the seat in front of them.

"I've got how long now?" Mycroft asked Trinity absently; she paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Five minutes. I'd get down soon if you're not intending on breaking the table," she advised, aloof despite being sat on by a particularly not-light grey tabby.

Lestrade smiled a bit sadly, then got an idea, whipping out his camera phone and snapping a quick picture of the trio of animals.

"Sentiment, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked with a quirk of his brow.

Unabashed, Lestrade nodded once, and the three bystanders watched as Mycroft exploded into a burst of light and smoke, quite literally. When the eye-burning brightness had faded, there stood Mycroft, wearing the same clothing he'd been in on the day of his transformation, umbrella in hand, and a new scar on his wrist where Sherlock had bitten him.

"Finally," he cheered mildly, smiling just a bit when he turned to face the Detective Inspector.

"Ugh, _please_ don't do any of that here," Sherlock exclaimed with disgust, earning an irritated, amused and nonchalant glance from the others.

"Congratulations, you two~!" Trinity cried, oblivious to their expressions, tail wriggling and wings fluttering about her excitedly. "Mycroft-you are exempt from our Deal, as promised. Upon my departure, if you'd so like, I will remove any and all memories of myself and the havoc I caused during my time here."

"That won't be necessary-I'll have it all looked after and checked out myself." He replied, tone somewhat back to it's original smug, threatening sound. She flitted into the air to more closely examine him.

"Right. But your brother has yet to break the spell, and if you tell him or his friend John here that little secret as to how to break it, the contract is null, and I will take both of you with me." She countered, stern now, eyes challenging Mycroft's now-domineering tone to argue. He begrudgingly did not, and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Go fix Mrs. Hudson, then-it can be your part of the deal on Mycroft's end, his reward, and a good motivator to keep us on our toes and in line, no?" Sherlock interrupted. Ironically, it'd seemed that Trinity would follow his suggestions more willingly than the others', and he often used it to his advantage, despite his current situation. The otter dragon nodded agreeably, gliding down the stairs and towards their Landlady's flat to do so.

"She is so troublesome, that one..." Mycroft remarked in exasperation, deflating. "She would make a great adversary if given the chance-Sherlock." The otter immediately turned to his now-human brother in a frigid manner.

"I cannot express the details on how I broke my... Spell. However, I can guarantee that we did have some particularly accurate theories."

The otter grimaced and turned away to glance over John swiftly, who was busily mourning the floors and it's now-coated-in-icing-ness.

"Well, then, Mycroft-now all you have to do is damage control," the Detective Inspector put in, amused light in his eyes as the elder Holmes turned to face him once more.

"Hmmm... Yes, you're correct. I should be leaving soon, then..." He fumbled with his pockets, searching for his phone before Greg recalled having it in his own.

"Right-sorry, then; I'll just-" he began apologizing, but Mycroft had silenced him with a hand in the air, and the phone against his ear.

"Could you please come retrieve me from my brother's flat? Yes, you know the one. And I'll be having a guest come along with us. Not our usual kind, no... All right, thank you... Gladys, today, correct? ...Quite right."

He hung up the phone and smiled at Lestrade, this time without its usual menace, and he smiled back warmly.

Sherlock made a sound of disgust, heading over to the refrigerator to rummage about the insides for fish and some of that celery John chose to nibble on when he thought no one was looking.

Once found, he trotted over, politely offering his friend the snack. John accepted as Lestrade knelt down.

"I'd best get this cleaned up, then..." He remarked, beginning to wipe away the frosting.

"That won't be necessary!" Announced a newly-human Mrs Hudson, unaware she was being followed closely by a rather smug Trinity, beating her wings slowly to hover. "I'll take care of it-just this once, I'm going to have to be your housekeeper." She smiled, a bit reluctantly, but agreeably cleaning up the mess Mycroft made. There was no apology given, until Lestrade nudged him.

"Oh-ah, yes, er-I'll cover any of the damages made during our... Erm, situational period." He narrowed his eyes at the otter dragon and levelled a glare at her. She challenged his glare in response, and he sighed, looking away. Satisfied, she made her way to the bull's head wearing Headphones, perching on it in an oddly catlike manner as Mycroft's phone chimed.

Without a glance, he knew his ride had arrived, and absently snagged Lestrade's hand as he said his wary farewells while trudging down the steps.

Blankly, John stated after them, suddenly uneasy. "Sherlock... Was that... Did they break the spell by..."

Too embarrassed to speak any further, his eyes swept around the room, only to find his Detective not listening, instead snarling silently at Trinity, who watched him impassively.

"Hey!" He called, shuffling over as quickly as he could. Both otters quickly looked up at him, (in his case, down) but before he could continue onto berating or scolding either of them for their childishness, the she-otter swooped down on him, like a hawk, and all he could do was watch in horror as she descended, a blur of brown tackling and sweeping him out of the way just in time-Sherlock, he realized.

"John-are you okay?" He choked as Trinity flitted back to her perch, seeming almost smug to John, although he wasn't too sure, as being in shock didn't help.

"Yeah, f-fine-Oi! You!" He wriggled around in Sherlock's embrace-when had that happened?-to aim his yelling at his assailant resting on their mounted bulls-head.

"What was that for?!" He demanded angrily, spines bristling.

Sherlock tensed against the sharp prickling against his chest, but made no commentary; he simply stayed silent and observed.

* * *

John seemed to be quarreling at nothing to Mrs. Hudson the rest of that week-all she knew was that he was very angry, and that Sherlock was acting quite strangely as well, defending John from an unknown force by swiftly sliding his long, lithe body between John and the invisible attacker. She took great care to stay out of their way and obliged when told to duck, although she hadn't a fathom as to why.

Sherlock had bundled himself around John's prone form when he slept, which never provoked a fight with Trinity, but seemed to make his friend anxious, and he-somewhat sadly-would step aside to help alleviate that distress, even if he had to tirelessly defend him throughout the rest of the day.

John had become snappy, exhausted and irritable, although he did his best to remain amicable around his best friend, taking great care not to accidentally lash out at him. They dined and slept closely still, reinforcing their bond with the necessity to protect and fight, and the desire to remain close and unified.

Trinity had taken to dark silences and angry glaring, hunching over them eerily as though she were a vulture, quietly overseeing their time left together gracelessly. Very rarely now did she respond to either the otter or hedgehog, and especially in a polite manner, very much unlike herself. Sherlock suspected it was much like Moriarty and Moran's deal they'd conversed at one point, but she had neglected to mention any details that could apply to this.

He also knew that, in a way, she was trying to help him-it'd seemed that the romantic bonding between two individuals would break the spell, but Sherlock was unsure of this theory and was in no mood to try to shatter the relationship between he and the army doctor. The angry army doctor. All he could do was continue to be helplessly affectionate, get sick of fish and seafood, try and console his wilting friend, and watch Lestrade and Mycroft become ever-closer, Mycroft immediately having the divorce approved and speeding up the process, fairly helping Greg take back over 70% of his possessions and leaving the beastly woman with little left of value, without a court case. Sherlock was mildly surprised that his brother had held back so much, then found that Lestrade most likely had been the one to restrain him.

Somewhat disgusted with those thoughts, he would plod off to his bedroom, a disheartening sound of hissing in the sitting room following close behind, and curl up in his old sheets.

It was definitely a reprieve from Trinity's over-bearing attacks, and while he felt guilty about leaving John to defend himself, the otter knew he could do it well, curling up and using his spiny back to keep the dragon away. While it had worked efficiently enough, John had often found himself being trapped under a cup or bowl spitefully, and was worn but grateful whenever Sherlock came for him.

He slowly began to truly appreciate his friend, even more now than before, and had more than once voluntarily snuggled into the fur of his larger friend. He didn't object, simply covering the dangerous spines with his scarf before cuddling closer, humming some of the tunes he'd have played for John to improve his mood had he not been without thumbs.

Still, it was a challenging week; the ups and downs of it had been new, tender, dearly sentimental (despite Sherlock's aversion to it) and memorable. But nothing else had happened-nothing of radical change, and their spell hadn't been broken. Trinity seemed gaunt now, hovering sinisterly over Sherlock with a foul sneer on her face, almost predatorily, as if she knew that soon, he'd become part of her legion. Her kind, and all because of one silly deal.

Sherlock very much prayed that the day would not come, but of course, fortune refused to be so kind to him.

* * *

"You know, you've only got two days left." Trinity finally spoke civilly one morning while John had been dosing, ensconced with Sherlock's scarf once more. The otter glanced up at her with a grimace.

"So I believe. Your point?"

She fidgeted in her perch, uncomfortable now. "I'll have to take you. You won't be seeing John again. Not after that. And it doesn't seem like you want the spell broken, because I can already see a very good possibility of you getting out of this fairly, Sherlock."

She rarely ever used his name-this was serious, he recognized. "I am-aware. Today and tomorrow are the last days, correct?" He rumbled, frigidly staring up at her. She flinched, then nodded. "Indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've instructions to be at my destination soon-a tower, I believe, is my next stop, before I make a few jumps not quite legal to mankind."

She smiled unhappily. "I would regret to say I'd enjoy having both of you join me, but alas, I will not. It was part of the deal, hence, I will follow through, appropriately."

"I will not allow John's life to be tampered with when I am alive and still capable of making a difference." He stated, fixing her with his laser-like glare. "This will not ever change-I refuse to be away from him should he be in trouble, regardless of shape or form," he continued valiantly, voice low and rasping, a hypnotic murmur, really.

Against his chest, John stirred, but remained asleep. "Sherlock," he buzzed under his breath with a sigh, allowing a burst of warmth to flood his chest and forepaws.

"You love him very much," Trinity murmured solemnly, gazing down on the duo affectionately. Sherlock scoffed at her, but she paid it no mind, propping herself up on the horns of the bust. "I don't understand why you haven't broken the spell already, all the requirements necessary to break it are all intact and fulfilled," she continued. "The only thing holding you back is simply that-the two of you."

"I won't force him into something unless it's requited." He replied firmly.

"Then you have chosen your fate, Sherlock Holmes." The sound of her tone was almost distressed, but he held firm, and dismissively turned his attention to John, who had begun to stir. Trinity fell silent and stern again, simply watching them now. Sherlock knew she would not interfere tonight, as a favour to his almost complete resignation. John would have to make the move today, that was certain.

"Hey, Sherlock," John mused tiredly, hugging Sherlock's scarf to himself comfortably, smiling at his friend, who smiled back weakly. "Good morning, John."

The hedgehog sighed, shaking free of the scarf before affectionately resting his head against Sherlock's; he knew that tone. "I know you're worried, but we'll figure it out. We have to."

There was a morbid silence, and Sherlock said nothing, although his thoughts demanded that he warn John of the proximity of his farewell. He dared not disturb the moment, however, instead humming a pleased note, shutting his eyes, taking one big breath, and opening them after a great pause.

"Sherlock," Trinity murmured warningly, watching intently with hawk-like attentions. John turned away, much to Sherlock's discontent, and cringed when he saw her staring, but nothing happened. He relaxed, and looked to Sherlock suspiciously.

"John," Sherlock began, a bit huskily, nervously rising out of proximity with the spines.

"Tomorrow is the day, isn't it?" The hedgehog asked suddenly, resigned. The otter nodded sagely, remorse coloring his eyes.

"Hey-it's fine, it's all fine, we just need to, ah..." He paused thoughtfully. "We'll figure it out," he decided, determination fixed in his eyes.

With this, he nuzzled his way out of their little bundle, testily waddling around Sherlock before being satisfied that Trinity would not launch herself at him today.

"John, I would very much like to spend today in your company, rather than add to the ever-larger amount of hopelessness I seem to... Feel."

_There, he'd said it,_ Sherlock thought, wilting. John turned to him with a fire in his eyes. _Oh, Sherlock Holmes-why is it always in your favor that you befriend those with a blazing temper?_

"Listen to me-I need to do this, even if you don't want to. I don't want to lose my best friend without giving my best at trying to help him remain home."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he consented. "I... Alright, John."

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

They'd spent all day poring over books on fantasy and magical demons and spells and mythology, trying to find a way out of their spell, to no avail.

Sherlock had already deduced the results of their research, and while grateful that he had a great understanding of the concept of how exactly to break the spell, he just wasn't truly capable of asking John to do it just for the sake of getting out of their predicament. He didn't have the heart.

Instead, they spent the time alotted together, curled around one another. John earnestly charged at the task before him, but Sherlock had given in hours ago, simply content to be in the other's presence.

At about ten o' clock, it had become apparent that they had run out of time, and it was by Sherlock's request that they ceased working and spent bonding, mostly floating in the bathtub, and tunneling around in the blanket again as they'd done before.

Sherlock and John's snickers, giggles, snorts, laughs, hisses, growls and running about could be heard downstairs, although Mrs. Hudson did not come up to complain once, and Trinity could more or less not have been present, frozen still, utterly silent, daunting but in a quiet, grim, non-repressive manner. John personally found it all a very spiteful business, but Sherlock thought it almost kind-no interruptions to separate the duo from one another.

"Sherlock," John began, shortly after they'd emerged from their makeshift tunnels. "I want to see... I wanted to give breaking the spell one last go. That's all I-yeah, just one." He fidgeted nervously under Sherlock's gaze, scrutinizing him.

"Sure," he intoned after a moment, lying on the ground before his friend, worn and noncommittal, resting his paws under his head, and shutting his eyes.

The hedgehog edged toward him with bated breath. _Well_, he thought. _Here goes nothing-or everything._

At last he took a final step, and decisively gave Sherlock's nose a little lick.

The detective tensed slightly, but did not move, contentedly receiving a few more licks—_something like kisses_, he realized.

At last, he opened one eye, questioningly. John glanced away quickly. "Ah, um, it was part of an old fairy tale, and-"

"John," Sherlock murmured. "Do you... Ah..."

"No, no, no, let's not-we're not doing this now." He hedged, alarmed, and backed away. Sherlock paused, and acquiesced. "Very well-so long as we do eventually."

He gave a pointed glance at Trinity, then back to John, who flinched. "Right."

There was a bit of silence, neither moving or speaking aloud, simply stationary and awkward. Then Sherlock hesitantly moved forward, and pressed his forehead to John's, giving the tip of his nose a little nip before completely moving himself away.

"People will definitely talk,"John muttered, following behind closely, anxiety long gone. Trinity looked down closely and examined Sherlock, then John, almost as if trying to find something. She seemed discouraged, though, and shook her head at them, putting her bearing back on once more.

"I... I just want to go to sleep now," Sherlock huffed, resigned now. The mere statement alarmed John-Sherlock hated sleeping, or eating or being bored...! It couldn't be...

Sherlock had given up.

Wanting nothing more than to mourn their many lost years and possible future adventures together, the duo curled up together for the last time on the Union Jack cushion, and fell into a deep slumber.

When John was sure Sherlock was asleep-the detective had always been a heavy sleeper, that sod-he opened his eyes and looked directly at Trinity.

"Please. I need him-he's my best friend, I can't..." He choked, and straightened. "Just remove that spell on us... I'll do whatever it is you need, but please, you have to let us go-unbind the deal, do something!"

The fathomless eyes melted into ones of emotion and understanding as the otter dragon descended silently.

"I cannot undo the deal-it was made, and Mycroft already completed his end of it. I granted his, you know that. There's two ways to break the spell now-love or deal. I refute death's influence on this one, sorry."

John grimaced. "There's got to be a way-please, if you take Sherlock with you after all, let me come with you! I am sure you need more numbers in your ranks, and without him..." _My future wouldn't be worth living out,_ he continued mentally. _I'd be stuck with a limp and a tremor and god knows what-or who-else would be on my tail for the rest of my life._

"I'm sorry, John. But your future was secured the moment Sherlock made his deal-in a way, he gave you the chance to deal the final blow. That was his surrender."

_Sherlock Holmes surrendered on my behalf. Oh, brilliant._ John thought, desperate.

"You still have the power to break the spell-even now, I still feel it. But you haven't. And I can't tell you any more. I would if I could get away with it, but..." She reflected his grimace with a look of pain. "I don't... I hate doing this to you both." At that, the creature raised her wings and fluttered back to her pedestal above them, to curl up into a ball of cream and chocolate fur.

And suddenly, Captain John Watson had lost all his hope-he couldn't make a deal with a stupid otter, couldn't even break a damn spell. He'd tried everything-even kissed his "prince", too, so to speak! And yet, nothing!

Incredibly frustrated and overwhelmed with misery, he laid back down against his friend's belly, and slept. He hoped that Sherlock would, at least, have the decency to wake him, so he could say goodbye.

He also prayed, harder, that morning would never come.


End file.
